


the fire never dies.

by serenitysea



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Memories, character introspective, these feels are nothing we were ever trained for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4783025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysea/pseuds/serenitysea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>becca requested: <i>When gods die, they die hard. It’s not like they fade away, or grow old, or fall asleep. They die in fire and pain, and when they come out of you, they leave your guts burned. It hurts more than anything you can talk about. And maybe worst of all is, you’re not sure if there will ever be another god to fill their place. Or if you’d ever want another god to fill their place. You don’t want fire to go out inside you twice.</i></p><p>skyeward style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fire never dies.

**Author's Note:**

> you can all blame becca for this one.

sometimes skye thinks about life beyond grant ward. 

*

she thinks of how neatly he’d fit into their little family on the bus. how his awkward social interactions and _too neat_ edges served their purpose of everyone wanting to give him a chance. how she fell for him, for _who she_ _thought he was_ – hook, line, and sinker. 

(sometimes she thinks of the man she’s come to know now; of life-roughened corners and shadowed eyes; the way vengeance bleeds from him like an oil spill in deep water; how there seems to be no containment for the fury of grant douglas ward. not any longer.)

*

when they are running missions and people are calling her by a different name – not the one she’d chosen but the one that had been given to her by parents who were not at all what she’d hoped they’d be and yet so much _~~worse~~_ more – and wind ruffles the hair off her face, it takes her breath away. 

because there are these phantom sensations that chase her; it’s a hand to her cheek, it’s the feeling of reverent eyes upon her face when the sun beats down warm and steady; it’s the soft kiss of rain on her lips instead of his chasing hers recklessly in a storage closet just before one world fell to reveal another. 

she wants to forget. 

she wants to forget it _all_. 

and somehow she knows that if she does, it will be _so much worse_.

*

reports of his death pop up when she least expects it. 

the first time she had felt nothing but relief; that she could finally put him, and their twisted past, long behind her. 

and then the second report comes, six months later and realises he hadn’t died at all. 

the third and fourth are not long after, and she’s getting impatient and frustrated with the faulty intel. 

it goes on like this for _years_. 

she never knows if he’s lived or died until another report of his death reaches her again. 

it’s a horrible way to live. 

(she think it’s probably a horrible way to die, too.)

*

there have been attempts to set her up on dates. 

she has even tried, once or twice, to see them through. 

and while she’s sitting across from some bland, nice looking man over a perfectly delicious dinner, it hits her. (hits her like the kind of knowledge that curdles fear in your gut for trusting the wrong man and the irreparable fallout that comes from such an action.)

the food turns to ash in her mouth and she excuses herself to the restroom before she hurls. 

there’s no _spark_ ; no reckless charge of _feelings_ like the reverb of an explosion deep in her chest from where she’s protected in his arms. 

nothing to simulate a _fraction_ of that experience. 

no one has that unmistakable bone structure; no one has his arrogant stride. 

at the end of the day, the truth slaps her across the face: _there is no match for grant ward.  
_

she could _weep_ from the unfairness of it all; from the bitterness of nostalgia that nips at her heels; from the _wrench_ in her heart that tells her she’ll never be whole again; from the _ache_ that she will be forever lost in the wreckage of their past.

there will be no peace for her.

not now.

not _ever_.

*

sometimes skye thinks about life beyond grant ward.

**Author's Note:**

> \+ [tumblr](http://b-isforbombshell.tumblr.com).


End file.
